Winsome’s jaw dropped. “You know them?”
“I made it my business to know them. We’ve met in passing. They work for George Fanthorpe, better known as The Farmer.”
“I know that name.”
“You should. One of the best kept secrets in the county. Thinks of himself as Lord of the Manor, gentleman farmer. Owns a dairy and acres of farmland. Stables and horse training, too. Lives near Ripon. His crooked reach stretches as far as Middleham. Beyond, too, probably.”
“They were asking about Jaff, and his dad was a bookie,” Winsome said. “Think there might be a connection?”
“I doubt it,” said Banks. “Perhaps at one time. But Jack McCready is long dead, and Fanthorpe’s main source of income is drugs. Cocaine and heroin, mostly. Bulk. Never sees or touches the stuff himself, of course. Mr. Big. Mostly deals with the student population. The farming businesses are a nice facade, handy for laundering the money. He’s probably the only dairyman making a healthy profit these days, or any kind of profit. The racehorses are a hobby-the sort of thing a country squire might be expected to take an interest in. The stables might actually be profitable.”
“How do you know about him?”
Banks finished his coffee. “Just one of those things. I talked to a minor drug dealer called Ian Jenkinson at Eastvale College about six years ago, just a follow up for a West Yorkshire case, and he let The Farmer’s name slip in connection with a murder on Woodhouse Moor. Another low-level dealer called Marlon Kincaid, who catered mostly to the Leeds student population. Apparently Jenkinson got some of his supplies from this Kincaid, who, in turn, we think, got them from Fanthorpe’s organization. Or should have done. As it turned out, he was freelancing, and this annoyed The Farmer. I paid The Farmer himself a visit. Smooth bastard, played the part well, but you know how you get a feeling sometimes, develop an instinct?”
“I’m getting one now,” Winsome said. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
“What can’t?”
“That name you just mentioned: Marlon Kincaid. I hadn’t got around to telling you yet, but we’re almost certain that the gun we found at the Doyle house was used in his murder on November fifth, 2004.”
“That’s about the right time,” said Banks. “Very interesting.”
Winsome nodded. “Indeed. Maybe we should have another chat with this Ian Jenkinson, if we can find him. What happened?”
“Well, it was like I said, a hunch. I did a bit of digging, but I couldn’t get below the surface. All the snitches clammed up. Scared. Next time I went to see The Farmer, Ciaran and Darren here were with him, lurking in the shadows. Business associates, he introduced them as. I noticed them on a couple of occasions after that, following me, parked over the street, shopping in the same supermarket. Always said hello and smiled, asked after the family. That sort of thing. Mild intimidation.”
“And were you intimidated?”
“A bit. Those two have a nasty reputation. Darren’s just a thug, not without brains entirely, but a thug nonetheless. Ciaran takes a genuine pleasure in hurting and humiliating people. Rumor has it they’ve killed more than once, and the killings are linked to Fanthorpe. But you know the way it goes sometimes. No evidence. Perfect alibis. Then something else came up. Marlon Kincaid was well known as a dealer to the student scene, and most people felt the planet was a better place without him. We got no further on Fanthorpe or on the murder. You know as well as I do that someone in that business can antagonize a lot of people, from rivals to disgruntled parents whose kids have overdosed. West Yorkshire checked all the avenues, but came up with nothing. We were only marginally involved because of the Ian Jenkinson connection. We had nothing on The Farmer to start with. He’s never been charged with anything. Maybe the forensic accountants could have made a case if they’d got access to his books, like they did with Al Capone, but we didn’t even have enough for a warrant. The CPS said forget it. There were more urgent matters screaming for our attention. Fanthorpe faded into the background with a little flag beside his name. Ciaran and Darren disappeared from my life. I can’t say as I ever forgot any of them, but nor did I lose any sleep over them, either.”
Winsome studied the sketches. “I can see that you wouldn’t forget them in a hurry. Ugly customers. I wonder why they aren’t more concerned about people giving descriptions of them after a visit?”
“They rely on the implied threat that they’ll come back and take their revenge. Most of the people they deal with are the same sort of scum as they are, so they know that. Rose isn’t from their world.”
“Will they go after her? Should we offer her protection?”
“I don’t think so. She’s not important enough for that. She was a means to an end, whether they got what they wanted out of her or not. It’s my bet they’d have no further interest. They’ve moved on. They don’t care if we know what they look like or find their prints all over the house. They know that, for one reason or another, it won’t go any further. If the worst comes to the worst, they’ll have rock solid alibis. Do you have any leads beyond what happened at the cottage? I need to find this little gobshite who’s abducted my daughter and scrape him off my shoe. If you’ll pardon the crude talk.”
“I’ll pardon it this once, sir,” Winsome said, “because I know you’re upset.”
“Thank you.”
“One thing I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Go ahead?”
“About Tracy being involved. Are you going to call your family and let them know? Sandra? Brian?”
Banks thought for a moment and massaged the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. The caffeine and sugar rushes hadn’t lasted. He felt exhausted again, like lying down right here and now and curling up in the fetal position. Conversations hummed around him, but they were all meaningless drivel. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not yet, at any rate. The last thing I need right now is Sandra on my back, or even Brian running around trying to help. They’d only get in the way. Besides, as far as I know he’s on tour with the band somewhere.”
“But shouldn’t they be informed by you before they read about it in the papers or see it on the TV news? We can’t keep the details of what’s happened from the media forever.”
“I suppose they should. But why worry them at this point? Worst case scenario, I’ll tell them later. Best case, all goes well, and they’ll never need to know.”
“What about your mum and dad. They are Tracy’s grandparents.”
“They’re on a cruise,” said Banks. “They’re always on a cruise these days.”
Winsome shrugged. “It’s your decision. They’ll probably find out when they get back, anyway.”
“Probably. But that’s then, and this is now. What’s the latest?”
“I’m not up to speed,” said Winsome. “Remember, I got the airport detail.”
“Okay. Thanks for doing that, by the way. Let’s head for the station and see what we can find out. What’s my role to be in all this? I can hardly sit at home and twiddle my thumbs, but I doubt that Madame Gervaise will want me on the case.”
“She wants to see you about that as soon as possible,” Winsome said, “I’m sure she’ll find you something to do. And as far as sitting around at home is concerned, I think you’d better organize some alternative accommodation to twiddle your thumbs in as soon as possible”
Banks looked puzzled. “What? Why?”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten the protocol, sir, but your cottage is now a crime scene. It’s locked down. You can’t go home.”
11
BANKS MADE THE PHONE CALL TO ARRANGE FOR HIS accommodation on the way to Western Area Headquarters in the patrol car Winsome had arranged. Mrs. Haggerty was shocked by the recent shooting in the village. “In a policeman’s house, as well,” she said. “What are things coming to?” And she proceeded to tell Banks that the last, and only other, shooting they had had there was in 1942, when a local farmer mistakenly fired his shotgun at a tramp, thinking he was a German spy. The tramp suffered only minor injuries, and no charges were brought.